


Timebomb Ticking

by queerdear



Category: Smosh
Genre: Alternate Universe - Powers, F/F, M/M, but it ain't too fun, everyone has powers, it's basically a legion fx au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-26
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2020-03-13 19:54:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18947740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queerdear/pseuds/queerdear
Summary: "Your whole life people have been telling you you're sick. What if they were wrong?"Damien is delusional, or so he thought. But meeting people like him will change everything, or will it? Nonetheless, it's a disgusting curse they're burdened with.





	1. keep the doctor away

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first fic please be kind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahh this is my first fic please be kind

_“Are you still a danger to yourself and others?”_

The question does not stick, he’s heard it hundreds of times before. From bespectacled and bearded professionals just like this one. Dr. Raub was no different. In neutral toned turtlenecks and coats, with coffee colored clipboards. Coffee tables with stacked books, and a vase of flowers stacked over them. Scenic shots framed and hung on walls. An aesthetic that’s supposed to soothe unsettled souls like him. But it’s all too familiar without any of the positive connotations; instead, with all the negative conditioning that came with the years of back-and-forth between innumerable offices and clinics and hospitals.

However, there is a distinct difference now, and it’s causing him considerable cognitive dissonance. The image the setting inspires is less a therapy session, more an interrogation. Concrete walls, and low hanging lights. A window on his right-hand side, spanning a view of nondescript woods; on his left was a mirror, one-sided like in the police procedural dramas. With someone watching on the other end, he could feel it. Dr. Raub sat across him, a steel-surfaced table separating them. On it were his papers, all files and documentations of his delinquency.

Within seconds he knows the answer, an astounding _Yes_ , but it wasn’t his fault. “No.” he responds but it doesn’t come easy. He fidgets in his seat, not once making eye contact.

Dr. Raub cocks a thick brow, unconvinced but hanging on to his every word. “Very well,” he picks up a pen, clicking it and opening a folder. “I will be starting your … _evaluation_.” Damien sensed the scrambling in his thoughts for a better term. _Call it for what it is, an investigation, an inquisition._  “Please inform me if you are made uncomfortable, or if we are breaching a more sensitive topic.” He nods his unenthusiastic consent. “In that case, we will allow a short break.”

He looks up at Damien through his glasses. “When were you diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia?” _You already know man._ This was more a test of honesty than anything, and Damien could do nothing but fail, as he proved their preconceived notions of him. “And what was the inciting incident?”

Damien looks to his right, noting it was noon. Sun high in the sky, it was a lovely day—it could be a lovely day, probably for anyone who wasn’t him, but now he was just stalling.

“I was 15.” is his shaky start. “My friends and I were, uh, at a convenience store.” Damien couldn’t understand how a memory could be so muddled. Like waking up from a nonsensical dream to find out it all took place in your reality. “And it wasn’t a good night.” Sounds of screaming shot through his mind. Accompanied by a sharp, searing pain. “I-we were … just inebriated. Not in the right state of mind.” _Ever_ , he almost added. If Dr. Raub noticed his discomfort, he did not comment on it. Keeping a forward, guarded expression on his owlish face.

“Just for clarification,” he interrupted. “Was this before or after your parents’ separation?”

Damien gritted his teeth. “Immediately after.” he resumed his narrative. “The shopkeeper thought we were getting too rowdy, he threatened to call the cops. A-and we didn’t react to well too that.” _What did we do to the poor man?_ “There was a physical and verbal altercation. Threats of and performance of violence.”

“And destruction of property?” he made a show of flipping through records. “According to the police report, the site was near obliterated.” Not his greatest moment. He bowed his head in shame, gaze downcast as Dr. Raub enumerated the casualties. “Walls collapsed and windows shattered completely, with debris reaching up to an inconceivably expansive radius. Your companions and the owner were found under the rubble with minor injuries, scratches, bruises, fractures, and the like.” He glanced up at Damien with a strange interest gleaming in his eyes, not horror or fright. As if encounters like this weren’t too out of the ordinary for him. “But you,” he took off his glasses, and gestured to him. “You were found outside. Sitting on the pavement, unharmed and laughing.” That was hazy to him, he remembered being forced into the back of a police car and not much else after it. “We won’t be resurfacing the legalities of the whole event, but footage of the incident was lost, and testimonies are unreliable.”

Dr. Raub inquired. “So, would you mind explaining how an incident like this would occur?”

“If I’m being completely frank with you, I have no idea.” It was no lie. His mind was a mystery to him. Certain memories blacked out, in an encrypted vault that even he didn’t have access to. Secrets so secluded. Unusual images flash across his mind, specific stimuli assaulting his senses. “I wish I knew too.” his sarcasm is showing.” I’ve been wondering for so long.”

He notices, temperament shifting accordingly. “It certainly is no small ordeal for a group of teenagers, no matter how juvenile. Especially unarmed ones.” Unamused, he narrowed his eyes. “Regardless, if I were to ask you about any other similarly circumstanced situations in your life,” he contemplated. “Your response would be …?”

“I don’t know.” Damien answers earnestly, so sincerely tired of all the prodding and probing. But Dr. Raub doesn’t seem convinced, putting down his pen and massaging his temples. “Even if I did, it’s not like anyone would believe me.” It’s defeat realized. He slumps back in his chair, slouching. But his despair is wasted on deaf ears.

The doctor sighs. “Damien, please spare us of this behavior.” feigning a legitimate concern. “We won’t be getting anywhere with that kind of attitude, not with your history.”

Suddenly his hopelessness is tainted with an anger he’s not sure he wants to tamp down. “This treatment does not feel conducive to my rehabilitation at all, Dr. Raub.” he retorts. “My history?”

“You know what I’m referring to,” He talks in that infuriating, level-headed monotone that reeks of condescension, but he’s holding back. “Or would you like to me list your offences?” Before Damien could interject, he begins. “You have been living as a recluse these past few months, following your ‘ _leaving’_ of your last psychiatric hospital without being discharged by an overseeing physician—which, technically speaking, means that you escaped from a high-security facility.” No one would believe Damien if he had said that the guards let him out with no fight. All he did was ask. Next thing he knew, his face was plastered all over the news. In posters and flyers, on the radio and the TV. But he wasn’t about to admit the fact to a man who thoroughly thought he was incurably insane. Dr. Raub persisted, provoking him. “A facility you were put into by your family, as a result of your _criminal record_ , _drug use_ , _mental illness_ , and _destructive behavior_. Which, in my professional opinion, was and is the right choice.” Damien seethes; his face gets hot, fists clenched and knuckles white under the table.

_“You are a danger to yourself and to others.”_

The doctor rests his case with mouth in a close-lipped smile, stinking of smugness. It’s the straw that breaks his back, but before he can throw a fit of rage or some other rampage, a soft _click_ of the pen hitting the floor distracts him, breaking his train of thought. Damien takes it as an opportunity to calm himself down.

“I’d like to have that break now, please.”

Dr. Raub hesitates, contemplating. Possibly regretting allowing Damien the small mercy of a rest. With raised brows, he stood and bent down to pick up the pen. “I will be returning in five minutes.” His hand is on the handle and he steps out, the door closing with a heavy thud behind him.

Damien shudders where he sits, shoving his face into his hands, and elbows rested on the table. He feels many things, but above all he is tired. About to lay his head in rest, but he hears something.

A voice lucid and loud. It’s Dr. Raub’s, but with walls these thick, it would’ve been impossible. The sound like worms burrowing in his brain through his ear canal, he couldn’t not hear it.

_He’s a hazard, sir. Hostile and unhinged. If I had to identify the ability, I would have to say psychic telekinetic. With a possibility of mental manipulation. Telepathy is feasible but unlikely. Quite similar to the Sui case. Maybe to a higher degree. Definitely one of our more extreme specimens. However, the delusion makes for a difficult diagnosis. Showed no signs during the assessment, but it’s very much evident in the paperwork, conduct, and history. It’s a clear cut case._

A pause, dead silence in his cerebrum.

_I move we execute Code Red protocol without further delay or transfer._

Damien is perplexed, in every sense of the word. _Psychic? Telekinetic? Mental Manipulation?_ All terms and words from familiar fiction. _Where the hell am I?_

_Thank you, sir. I will assemble the unit._

His anxiety spikes, eyes darting wildly between the exit, his frightened face in the reflection of the mirror and the window beside him. _Code Red, Execute, Unit, Assemble._ All such military expressions.

The door swings open and his head snaps in its direction. Dr Raub, stoic still in the doorframe and as he took his seat. _Click._ The tip of his pen retracts, he sorts through the papers, closing files and folders with an air of finality. Damien is fearful.

“We will be postponing your evaluation.” he informs, a mild glee ill-concealed.

“Why do we hav—”

Damien hears the _thump thump thumping_ of marching men outside, and he has a vague idea of what might be happening. He scrambles to stand, his chair hitting the floor with a metallic clank. Arms raised in front of him, he pushed himself as far as he can. His back hits the cool concrete of the corner. Dr. Raub merely tilted his head in question.

“What the hell is going on?!”

He makes no move to soothe the boy. “Damien please,” he said, without much warmth or manner. “Take a seat.”

“No.”

His nostrils flare but he reluctantly relents. “Fine. However, my employer and I would like to discuss your future.” Damien’s mind was running amok and Dr. Raub’s mouth was twisting into a malevolent smile. “And I’ll be frank—”

A loud crash keeps him from continuing. 

The wall behind the doctor crumbled into a flurry of debris. Showering them both in clouds of dust. Emerging from the newly made hole was a man. Blonde and buff in casual clothing, thoroughly dirtied as well. In one surprising movement, he whooped loudly and pumped his fist in the air, before bringing down his elbow to the back of Dr. Raub’s head. The two of them watched the older man fall forward with a satisfying slam sound. He stayed seated and unmoving.

He took a hesitant step forward, watching his rescuer with an odd excitement. A hero-looking fellow if there ever was one, with the exception of some scruff. Blue eyes met his with a dire urgency.

A beat passes them by.

“We should go.”

And Damien followed.


	2. your four saviours

_Contrary to popular belief, Damien does not want to die, but he comes close every time._

Soldiers swarm them the instant they step out. Indistinguishable in identical black gear and masks; the human inside hidden completely.

 _"Shoot-to-kill."_ Is the robotic order of their leader and it sounds unreal.

In one uniform movement, they raised their firearms.

_Shit._

_This was it, wasn’t it?_ He had nothing on him that could even remotely function as a weapon, they made sure of that when they confined him.

Damien looks expectantly at his liberator, who was taking a stand in front of him. Arms spread out to shield him. _Save me save me save me_. Damien’s life doesn’t flash before his eyes—not like he would have wanted it to. Damien doesn’t even have time to reconcile his regrets before his final moments. What he does is shrink back, hunching over himself, shaking, His eyes screw shut in anticipation of a barrage of bullets. But it never comes.

Instead, lightning like long lines traveled across the tiles to where they stood. Bright light blinding as air warms around them. Flashing across the floor, first linear but branching off into jagged forks. Narrowly missing him and his rescuer but striking its targets in a shocking split second; loud thuds from where the troop fell convulsing. He hears the _clap-crackle_ of thunder shortly afterwards, snapping him back to his senses. From the end of the hallway, a wiry man was kneeling, fingers splayed with palms flat across the floor. He looked up at the blonde through a hard-brimmed hat, saying something Damien couldn’t quite hear but understood just fine.

 _Run_. They step over bodies in an attempt to flee, following the man as he darted down winding ways.

There is a realization of freedom, as they made their escape, him and his heroes.

Dr. Raub laid dead or unconscious over his work, soldiers subdued and scattered, his bonds broken. He’s drowning in a thrill that has him short of breath and weak in the knees but running faster than ever. It was enough for Damien to forget he was still following strangers blindly, with no clue of where he was headed or even if there was going to be a change of pace. The exact thinking that got him into this mess in the first place. But he had just witnessed a man burst through a wall and another one summon literal lightning from his hands; everything else was understandably pushed to the back of his mind.

The building is a maze, made of unyielding mass, the gloomy grey of it all boring into him. Damien felt as though he was in the belly of the beast. Walls swallowing him whole and warping in on him. Corridors deserted, lined with doors and rooms just like his. Thick, metal-plated things, with big bolts and large locks. _How many more were there? ‘Patients’ like him?_ It’s a question that shakes him to his core, but it doesn’t have the time to settle.

“Where the hell is everyone Keith?” Strongman half-yells at his associate.

Lightning man, now named Keith, glances back at the two of them without slowing. “Boze and Wes on distraction, no opp below but they might not be able to hold position for long.” They drew nearer to the end of the hall, he sees the stairs now. “Courtney and Noah still lookout, catwalk secured.” _So, this was a mission of sorts?_

He stops just before they can make their descent, Damien is heaving but he has some serious questions that need addressing. “Please,” he begs. “Where am I?” Looking to them while bent over, hands on his knees. Both of them share a blatantly sympathetic glance. Strong man, as he decides to call him in his mind, chimes in first.

Strongman speaks with a soft subtlety. Completely aware of their situation but understanding of Damien’s dilemma. His face is no façade; it’s honest, Damien decides and he likes it. “We help people like you—like us.” _That had a nice ring to it. People like us._ He had a feeling Strong man wasn’t referring to fellow felons or some loony league. It’s a sanguine sentiment that grants him some solace, and he falls deeply for the fantasy of friends. Keith gives him a pat on the back. “Now come on, we have to hurry.” He nods his enthusiastic consent. “They’re waiting for us.” Damien thinks it’s scary how swiftly these _‘strangers’_ and their _‘they’_ have swayed him. It’s just emblematic of one of his more deeply seated issues, but he’ll trip down the steps if he does anything but run right now.

A few fast footfalls finds them on the first floor of what looked like a military base. Sky high scaffolding and giant girders. Crates occupied the considerable space. Emergency lights and alarms on every other wall pillar. Entryway enormous, leading off into the woods, a thicket of trees and a dirt path. The concrete cold under his bare feet. Some sunlight streaming through the windows.

He glances around. And sure enough, on the catwalk were two distant figures.

It’s a strange scene he sees. A girl and a boy, sitting on the railing. Legs dangling and swinging over the edge. In a leisurely lull, as if they were just waiting for them to arrive. They make no move to … _move_ , but the girl zeroes in on Damien with—not a predatory intrigue, rather a seriously surprised expression. As if she had just seen fantastical, fictional entity; a sight of splendor. Not some heinous human, homely in his horrible jumpsuit. She hops off, tenaciously tapping her companion’s shoulder before clambering down the catwalk’s rickety stairs with a _clank clank clank_.

She rushes to them, and successfully stuns Damien into a hug—an action that has become somewhat unfamiliar to him. Wrapping long limbs around him without hesitation. Pulling back but holding onto his shoulders steadily. Gleaming green eyes searching every fragment of his face. Like she was afraid he would vanish at any moment.

Everything about her is hopeful.

“It’s him Courtney.” Keith reassures to no avail, she disregards him and doesn’t let go.

“I know.” she says softly in admission. Courtney ultimately unhands him and her companion comes up from behind her.

A tall, thin youth with a most intense expression to him. Bushy brows furrowed, and eyes are all-seeing, giant and green behind glasses. His hair split down the middle, an overgrown orange and burnt blue shade locked in a tumultuous battle. Damien finds it hard to look at him. “Nice to meet you Damien Haas.” He gives him a once over, and it’s enough for him to feel like the depths of his soul has been discovered but he turns to address the others before Damien could dissect his first impression.

“If we don’t rendezvous with Wes and Boze,” Glasses informed, checking his watch. “We’re going to miss our exit window.” _Was he worried at all? Scared?_ Damien couldn’t tell, he was unreadable.

Strongman tilts his head in confusion. “We haven’t got a signal from them at all and there was an interference from tactical, Keith had to come in for a rescue.”

“Then what’s taking them so long?” she says, watching the way out with wary eyes.

He feels the need to pipe up with what little he had—excluding his unorthodox _‘diagnosis’_. “I overheard Dr. Raub say something about Code Red protocol.” The four of them look at him, then at each other in different degrees of dread. Suddenly he thinks he should have shut up.

 _“Code Red?!”_ Glasses groaned at no one in particular. “Are you kidding me?”

“We couldn’t have known about it.” Courtney countered, rationalizing. But fearfully fidgeting with her flaxen hair.

Strongman ran a hand through his hair with a sharp exhale. “We definitely could have.” he added abruptly. “That should’ve been considered when making the mission plan.”

“That our extraction operation site is a maximum-security station? Yes.”

Damien’s eyes dart between all of them with a faint fright.

“Who was in charge of it then?” she mumbled.

“It doesn’t matter now.” Keith replied, albeit looking considerably culpable.

“Wait, what does that mean for Wes and Boze?” Strongman asked, glancing to the entrance.

Glasses trudges towards the exit. “It means they’re holding off maximum-security levels of armed forces.” he calls to them over his shoulder.

The rest of the three of them share a look—a look that only comes from how ever many years of kinship they shared. And dash to the door, following Glasses’ lead.

This time, Damien has no choice but to follow. He does so, rambling rapidly with a restrained resentment. Damien relishes in this reality momentarily. Soil and grass crunch beneath his feet, so soothing and stable. Savage sun beating down on him. The breeze is brisk and bracing, but it’s nothing to him. Belatedly realizing how long it had been since he has been in such a scene. _Too long_. Around him, the four are trying to track this _'Wes' and 'Boze'_. 

It’s a relatively peaceful instant. Until he hears the sonic rip of weaponry tear through the tranquil of day.

And they’re right back where they started. It’s a harrowing moment and it does not help that his instincts are shit, because he stands there like an idiot in the middle of a not-so open fire. Strongman grabs his hand, near crushing it, and drags him to where they have taken cover; a peak of rough rocks, tall trees to their sides are struck. All ear-splitting noise and booming _bangs_.

“Noah, we have to get to the meet-up point!” Keith shrieks, his pitch climbing along with his ascending agitation. “We can get back up at base when we get back!"

Courtney takes obvious offence. “And chance leaving behind two people, what about Wes and Boze?”

“We need to come up with something right now,” he yells over the pandemonium. “Or we’re all dying here!”

Glasses, now named Noah—somehow very appropriate, pauses and ponders. “He’s right, we have to risk it.”

“What about Ian?!”

“We’ll burn that bridge when we get there.”

At this point Damien has given up on understanding.

Strongman concurs quietly. “Straight ahead is our best route, we just make a run for it.” he pointed out. “Keith can divert and distract on the run, I can fight if it comes to that.”

Courtney is unconvinced and uncertain but her retort is stolen from her, when a stocky silver man jumps from behind her. Taking cover and tugging towards them a dark, disoriented woman.

 

“We really need to go.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> boi do i suck at action-y scenes


	3. daddy is here

People entrusted their safety to Shayne far too much for his liking. He could hardly keep himself out of harm’s way.

Wes is unsurprisingly unwounded, possessing that power that allowed him to move faster than humanly possible. Craned his head, looked over the rocks they had dived behind and winced, ran a hand through his air-tangled hair—in normal speed. Perfectly fine apart from his scrunched up nose and fretful fine face. But waves of worry wash over him when he sees Boze. Stock-still stationary, her head lolled to the side with eyes opened just a crack, not really seeing anything. Limp and lax, she lacked her usual life. It was a version of Boze that never failed to bother him, but it was a grievous given considering her abilities. He reached out to her with all the care their circumstances called for, holding Boze up; throwing her gloved limbs over his neck. His arm circling her back and the other around the bend of her knees. With almost no effort, Shayne carried her and picked himself up off the ground. Making sure to keep Boze at a distance, lest he prompt or provoke her powers.

“You’re going to be fine.” he confided without much confidence and to no response.

They wait for him with watching eyes.

“Wes, do you think you can run up ahead?” Noah asked, looking ahead into the woods, squinting. “Check if Mari is already there, maybe we can move the transport spot nearer here.” _Smart._

“Yeah, okay.” he affirmed, before disappearing into a speedy silver streak. Fast past trusses of trees.

“Our route runs along a river, leading off to a shore,” Noah turned to announce to the remaining people. “Mari will meet us there and teleport us back to base.”

He sneaks a peak at Damien, dazed and disoriented, eyeing the exchange with a defensible disbelief. His clear confusion was understandable and not too dissimilar from everyone else’s reaction when they were rescued. He shakes off his own memories. A careful cue to Courtney—characteristically caring—from Shayne has her reassuring him. Still shaken and even more so stunned upon seeing a man travel at super speed. But his questions would have to wait until they were safe and secure, battlefields were no place for an orientation. Until then, it was very much a secondary setback. “At my signal,” Shayne says, glancing at the group. “Run like hell, alright?” It’s all nervous nods as he swallows back his unease. They had not been in such grave danger for a while, with—dashed—hopes of keeping it that way.

“Go!”

Roots knot into the terrain, keeping him from going at full speed. Ground is gnarled and uneven. Shayne hears the steady steps of the men gaining on them. A constant crunch of leaves and twigs from their massive march. A clock counting down their demise, _ticking_ replaced by a threatening _thumping_. Sun streaming overhead, fracturing as they filtered through the branched-leaved trees. Not to mention Boze slowly awakening in his arms. She pounds at his chest with feebly furled fists. He grits his teeth, sweat dripping down and beads his brow. His breath leaves him in brief bursts, but he’s bent on beating these bastards out of here. To his right, Courtney and Damien, hand-in-hand, dashing through the dirt. On his left, Noah nimbly dodging any obstruction. Far in front is Keith, flying fast. Behind him, a barrage of bigots, blurring into one big being. Making a stand would be impossible. Maybe if they had Lasercorn, Flitz, Sohinki, and Joven with them—unfortunately, they were good followers, better than him. Following Ian with an utmost  obedience, something Shayne sees now that they should’ve done too. Instead, they have laid their lives on the line for the last time for some semblance of a message from a sleeping saint way past waking.

He thinks of them dead. Littered and scattered in the woods, filled with bullets. All grotesque imagery, _lambs to the cosmic slaughter._ Or worse, alive and underground, for the Division’s sick scientific pleasure. _Your whole life people have wanted you gone, this is just Destiny delivering you to Death’s door._ He thinks of Ian’s grief, everyone’s grief—the oceans dull in comparison to the dark depths of their despair. As they mourn losing more than half of their family. They've always been united through their loss, a lasting, beautiful sentiment that will be of no solace to him and them, for now and forever.

Shayne is taken out of his  spiraling, self-loathing stupor when Boze hops out of his hold.

Spry as ever and landing on heeled boots before breaking into a sprint beside him. "Did we get him?" she asks, surveying her surroundings, like the soldier who had slept throughout the fight but not really. Fighting most of it through someone else's body more like.

He nods towards him.

"Ahh, we _saved_ Damien."

Her response hangs there. Will hang there until someone finally asks the next, obvious question. _Now what?_ No one does and it's not really the best time. But it will come up.

"There's too many of them." Boze huffs indignant.

"Mission plan remains." he maintains. It feels too casual a conversation for two people running away from certain doom. Almost as though they were chatting about the weather. "Wes went to get Mari, Mari is going to get us bac—"

In an inspiring ultimate act of self-stupidity—a Boze power move if there ever was one, she stops dead in her tracks. As if she just had an exceptional epiphany. He hears the tires screeching in his mind and it's too real. "They want the boy so bad, but we got him." all cocky confidence, it was like looking in a mirror. "He must be good." Standing as tall as she can.

He indulges her. A horrible  habit of his. "Your point?"

"I say we point him at them and see what happens!"

"No!"

“We’re already here! We’re never going to get an offensive strike like this ever again!”

The realization sets in, it’s a payback play with a complete disregard for safety.

His friends have disappeared into the trees but he knows the way. So, instead of doing the right thing and bolstering Boze over his broad, buff shoulder and bounding for the beach, he presents a counter argument. "He’s traumatized, he probably doesn't even know what he's capable of—"

Sonic sounds of shots cut him off, as terminal as a period at the end of a sentence. He glares at her and heads to his right. Boze follows with a reckless reluctance. They creak closer and closer to this body of water and its sandy shore. Vast and vacant. Neither Mari nor Wes in sight, but huddled together were his companions. Behind boulders, all at varying levels of anxiety and agitation. Someone is screaming, it’s Keith. Matching out Noah’s know-it-all nonchalance.

They’ve done what they can, the rest was up to Mari. The plan, in its early stages, had been simple enough— _easy_ enough. Noah prompting the mission, claiming a vague, vatic vision from Olivia. And once Olivia was mentioned, Courtney jumped at the idea, with a compelling commitment. Roused by her resolve, they—him, Boze, Wes, Mari and Keith were moved, but initially, rightfully resistant; the safety and protection of their kind had been a priority for so long. It was too bold a move for them, and so they planned and planned. Planning around Ian and everyone else who would’ve voiced their valid variance. They had questions, to which Noah had all the answers.

 _How do we deal with the offensive?_ Mari mused. On their side, surprisingly, despite her fidelity to Ian’s ideals. _We’ll be quick, just an expeditious extraction._

Keith contended, his trust in Noah tested. _And where is this base even? Xxxxxxxxx xx x xxxxx. Xx Xxxxxx, Xxxx_. Strangely specific, but feasible information.

 _And how do we get there?_ Boze beseeched bossily. _I don’t think Ian would exactly teleport us there._ Do not fear, Noah had a solution. _But Mari will. Mimic his abilities and move us from there to here, and back._ She agreed, self-assured. Posture perfect with a precise nod of her head. Shayne wasn’t so convinced, power mimicry was a notoriously difficult ability to master—according to Mari, the only person he knew who had that power.

 _What do we even know about this Damien Haas?_ Wes wondered, wary of any adversaries. _He’s one of us, he’s in danger and that’s all we need to know._ What about him specifically? Is Shayne’s unsaid inquiry. Thinking of other _one-of-uses_ , left unsaved and unrescued. _Unalive_.

They planned some more— _location, strategy, roles, timing_ —and, when they were done, Courtney came to him. Concerned that her priorities weren’t in the right place. Caved in to her consternation, with her face contorted, near tears. _Am I doing this because I think it’s right?_ she confided, arms crossed over her chest and expression droopy. The commander who has led her liege to trouble. _Or because I—we need her back?_ Answer leaned towards the latter; still, a life hung in the balance.

 _This is something we have to do._ he consoled.

His head snaps behind him, heedful of their environment, before he makes his way to their gathering.

“Wes isn’t here, which means he’s back there.” Noah argues, fingers splayed across his eyes in his ill-hidden attempt to hide his apprehension. “Which means our move is on the way.” Damien watches them wrangle, eyes bouncing between the two like witnessing a tennis match. “Can you just hold it.”

Keith clenched his jaw. “It better be because I sure as shit ain’t dying here.” Shayne joked, defusing this bomb of a tension before it escalated any further. “Place is awful.” Conflict was counterproductive to their circumstances; Courtney mouths her silent gratitude.

So, they wait. Contrary to popular belief, Shayne doesn’t think he’s about to die—anymore. All they have to do is wait. For a vehicle back to sure safety and suddenly he’s reassured. He seats himself beside Damien. They follow, dropping like flies on a white, sandy bed. Battered and beaten, all too aware of how taxing and tiring using their powers were after how many years leaving them untapped. It was unfair, how his strength should be a stranger to him, but it wasn’t like he’s lived a fair life. He flexed his knuckles, bruised, winced at the blue blooming there. The discomfort dims when he recalls the way Raub fell. _For Summerland,_ he memorializes in his mind. A light dusting of debris remained on him and Damien—oh, Damien.

He leaned closer to reassure the bearded boy. “I swear everything will make sense.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Damien squeaked, _doubtfully_ , looking to the water and the skies and the trees—not at all at Shayne . “She said as much.” Gesturing towards Courtney, who had inched towards Boze. Taking the girl’s gloved hands in hers, presumably palliating her pain.

“What did she say?”

He looked up at Shayne finally, a hushed helplessness to him. Shayne didn’t have to be a telepath-empath-whatever to see it; he also didn’t have to be like Damien to feel a strong sympathy for him.  They were linked now, through these abilities beyond their comprehension. “That you find people, you help them—save them. Like heroes, I guess.”

“Hardly.”

He’s rewarded with a soft smile. A first. It gifts Shayne some solace, but he doesn’t have time to revel in it.  Because Ian materializes right then and there, Mari in tow—conscience stricken with her slumped shoulders, playing with her purple hair. Ian is scowling down at them, but holding his vexation back in the company of others.

“We will discuss this later.” Ian managed—seethed more like. He shares a scared glance with Courtney. They’re frightened, but resigned to their fate without regret. Fate which has brought them to this beach, to save this boy, to later be punished for it. “Mari get us out of here.” The once distant treading of their opponents gets louder. With wide eyes, they are appalled and make no moves to hide it.

“Ian!” Courtney interjected. “Are you serious?”

An unequivocal thumping from the trees, creeps closer and closer. “She made her choice, she will keep to her commitment.”

“You’re really going to sacrifice our safety over this?!” Keith condemned, nose crinkled and brow creased. “Christ’s sake—she’s exhausted!” Not an untrue observation, Mari was worn out, back-and-forth transport had a tendency to tire the performer, especially since it wasn’t her specialty.

Ian crossed his arms. “Then I guess we’re all dying here.”

_“They’re over there!”_

Mari rubbed her hands together in preparation and shut her eyes, Shayne winced for her sake. A silent, stressed second later … they were still on the beach. And there were still people hunting them down. “Ian!” Boze barked, infuriated.

With a roll of his eyes and a groan, he raised his arms. Slow and steady, head tilted to the sky. Shayne compared it to calling forth some universal gateway.

Shayne has never really gotten use to the whole teleportation thing.

So, when they warp back to Summerland, he stumbles and near drops, just managing to grab on to the hem of Damien’s shirt. The wibbly-wobbly of the whole journey finally ends after what feels like an eternity and he feels his insides sloshing around inside him. A sensation that won’t leave until much later. Still, he has it better than the others. Courtney can’t stand still, waving her arms around in a vain venture for balance. Noah is in his peripherals and in the bushes, presumably puking. Keith is on his knees, head heavy between his hands. He holds a faint Damien upright—the first time teleporting always sucked.

Save for Ian, he stands stiff-straight with his back to them. An armored man even in his assemblage of one-toned button up shirts and plain pants. His one-tone expression is tough; strongly suggesting a deep disappointment. They stay in his shadow—a dismayed dad and austere military man all in one. And they’ve just contravened a  central command.

Mari collapses, but it’s because of that fatal wound. Some random soldier who got his shot in before they got away. Someone shrieks and Wes swoops in to catch her from where he stood with Joven at the entrance.

Ian’s façade drops, only momentarily. A flash of profound perturbance. “Take her to Sohinki.” he directed, watching with worry as Wes carried her away. “Then meet us at the tower.”

“Joven, see Damien to one of our reserve resident rooms.” he turns to them now. Terrifying without even trying. Ian says those six words, and a white-hot fear runs through all of them, but he can’t process it yet.

 

“The rest of you follow me.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm sorry i couldn't update any sooner (my school year just started ugh), but tbh the whole story is already plotted out and i think i've gotten through the intro—which is the hardest part in my opinion


	4. be our guest (permanently)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here's chapter 4 where joven is a sweet boi

That left just the two of them.

Joven read somewhere that while humans were inherently individual, in terms of physical appearance, mentality, morality—just about anything that sets them apart and made them different, they were still made from the same mold. Like cookies from the same cutters.

And Damien looked exactly like every one of them stumbling into Summerland.

A frightened fellow, finnicky in his every movement but for good reason. With wide eyes, he watched Ian lead the rest of them away. The thick of his tension felt tangible, you could see it on him everywhere—his face was rabid, searching for something even he couldn’t name. Like it or not, he was a part of this now, the pulsing of a power past all of them, any of them, piecing them together. In any case, he was still a stranger to his surroundings. Still a slave to his subconscious, not quite free. But that was their job—to relieve him of this burden. Psychics with their fragile realities and even worse sanity. A pitiful party of people.

"Hey buddy, hey." Hands hesitant, Joven reached for his shoulders. Damien flinched then winced, an all-telling sign of the sort of interactions he had been having. It made his heart hurt, heavy with the familiarity of antipathy from society. "You're with me now, okay?"

His breathing is at a concerning sort of speed, hands squabbling in his hair. It’s too much for him, all too overwhelming. “Okay, okay. Take deep breaths.” Joven did that thing he does for all the distressed denizens of Summerland, a successful stratagem of his. “Do you know the 4-7-8?” Soothingly stroking his back, Damien shakes his head—or nods. Joven can’t tell, he’s basically convulsing. He continues anyways. “We’re going to do it, okay?”

“Exhale completely.” Damien complies, eyes shut. “Through your mouth.”

Joven brings an index finger to the tip of his nose. “Now close your mouth please.” he requested. “And inhale through your nose,” he taps his own. “For four seconds, I’ll count out loud but you do it in your head too.”

A toothy smile greets Damien when he opens his eyes. “1…2…3…4.” Joven goes through the numbers with an undemanding understanding. “Good, good. But just keep that in there while I count to seven this time, okay?” Damien nods his head in an ambivalent agreement.

“1…2…3…4…5…6…7.” His cheeks are puffed out, brows raised, arched in question over big, brown, earnest eyes—a window to his own pitiful past. It was heartbreaking, how much he looked like a child, acted like a child. Seeking counsel and validation in all things. And Ian’s words have never rung truer in his head. _It’s never their fault._ “Now exhale, for eight counts. Do whatever the hell you want. Scream, laugh, curse—whatever makes you feel better.”

“1…2…3-”

“AHHHHH-”

“…4…5…6-”

“-AHHHHH!”

“-7…8.”

A soft _swooshy_ sigh of breath followed the ear-splitting shriek. “Did you feel better?”

“A little.” It was as if he had snapped out of a trance, and looked around himself with a greater awareness.

But little did Damien know, Joven had applied his abilities. Tapping into that part of him, his power; which has been called a useless blessing: power negation. Comparable to conducting an orchestra according to Joven. Silencing and shutting down the sonorous, but strident sounds of their gifts. He, a beautiful, beatific figure doing his bidding waving around a baton. Damien’s was a powerful piece, similar to a thundering Tchaikovsky, but he managed to mute it. And it goes without saying that this little lulling trick of Joven’s worked better when the participant thought it was them who had gotten their gifts under control. “That’s great.”

Joven thinks it’s the good—best time to start his spiel, _now or never._ “Welcome to Summerland, Damien Haas.” he offers up a hand and he meets him halfway. A secret subset of Joven’s powers, that he had opted not to reveal to most of his companions, was measuring the magnitude of others’ capacity. So it takes all of his strength to not jump back when they make physical contact. A sudden shock—not a shock, a _storm_. A sudden storm submerges him in a flood—not a flood, a _tidal wave_ of potential power. Could crumble cities, murder masses, wreck this world, rip through their reality. Alternatively, it could prosper under their protection. He decides to focus on that, but the discovery lurks in the back of his mind for later dissection. “I’m Joven.”

“I’m Damien—I mean, you already know that, obviously. It seems like everyone does.”

Joven chuckles before continuing. “Summerland is a safe haven and training facility for a gifted group of people, like us.” He’s hesitant, but the news must’ve been moderately milder than what he’s seen or heard. “You saw Wes, right? Super speedy silver-haired man? And Keith? Lighting from the tips of his fingers?” Damien doesn’t look as confused, and even seems to have reached a realization. “And you.”

“There might’ve been a mix-up,” he interjects, raising an index finger and putting it to his lips. “I’m not superpowered or anything.” a pregnant pause; forlornly filled. “I know what I am.”

“And what are you exactly?”

“Delusional, demented, disturbed-“

_“Your whole life have been telling you you're sick. What if they were wrong?”_

Damien freezes.

 _It’s too good to be true_ , Joven struck a chord and he could see it on the younger man’s face. It’s everyone’s first thought. How easy would it be to erase all the hurt you’ve inflicted on others? Forget all the abuse, affronts, and antagonism they’ve cast at you. The question washes down on him like a warm rain, washing away his fatal flaws … and also all his accountability. And as he pondered the point, he was comforted by their philosophy. He would _just_ be a person. It’s forgiveness, immunity, and validation bundled up in one believable argument .

“You have a gift, you are a gift.”

The second thought is usually _What?_

“What?” he hesitated.

Okay, maybe it wasn’t so believable. “Walk with me up to your room, I’ll explain as much as I can.” It was Ian’s job, all the orientation. He supposed he was more of a tour guide today. Stepping forward, he looked over his shoulder. “Let’s go?”

Damien is doubtful, but he puts one foot in front of the other, following him.

He took tremendous pride in Summerland, structurally speaking. Its inhabitants left a lot to be desired. But the building itself was something of a masterpiece. Although art was subjective and in the eye of the beholder— _and_ Joven was notoriously blind. Ian Hecox had inherited the land in his youth. A great deal to deal with as a youth. All woods and trees and promising plains. Considered capitalizing off of it, companies competing for his favor—condos, hotels, resorts, the like. Cashing it in would've been easy. Very nearly did, then he took a good look at himself, at his friends. Simultaneously sickened and strengthened by their capabilities. And came to a correct conclusion. Called off construction and brought in his own. A beautiful sort of bold brutalism their buildings. Clean lines and windows, but without the connotations of concrete construction, _chokeys_. Instead, wood, glass, beams. There are colorful accents, highlighting the shape of it—confrontational and raw. _Rustic chic,_ Olivia had rightfully dubbed it. Mildly Midcentury Modern with a zap of zen. They walk through the entrance together, a circular portal-like arch. _Appropriate_. Interior design and architecture aimed to appease and appeal to the aesthetics.

Damien is agape in awe. “No one really knows. Why or what,” Joven begins. “Is the origin of our abilities. Currently our theory is that humans are mutating, working towards an evolution. A lot of holes in that one, but it’s all we got.

“If you’re interested, speak to Sohinki or Ian about it.” Not wanting to sound pushy, he added abruptly. “Or not. Anyways, everyone one of our residentiaries has some sort of capacity for capabilities. But we’ve implemented some silent statutes: respect the residents’ privacy. You have to be sensitive when speaking to them, about their past and their present.”

Joven counted on the fact that he understood the significance of such rules, from his unfortunate upbringing. “Ian will be initiating your proper introduction at his soonest possible convenience.” _He’s too busy reprimanding the rest of them._ “I understand that this is a whole new world for you, because everyone here has also gone through it—what you’re feeling.” Joven takes a hard left, up some stairs. “But, in the meantime, do you have any questions?”

“Not that I can think of at the moment, no.”

A smile, sympathetic. “Feel free to make use of our intercom system, or ask around—respectfully.” Then a silent climb until they reached the third floor of their lodgings.

They had plenty of rooms. Summerland could house an upwards of fifty residents. There were _fourteen_ of them.

Joven skipped the subtext, the implications of the disparate gap were either: Ian was a horrible planner and horribly overestimated how many people had capabilities like them—highly  unlikely. Or, they were getting hunted to near extinction.

He doesn’t spare a second glance at the rows of doors. Lining the lumber walls, like varnished teeth set in wooden gums. All vacant, waiting for their tenants. Joven doesn’t have time for the tragic truth of it all—instead, stopping by a room that he’s sure is stocked with necessities and functioning plumbing. It’s on the left, second to the last. He lays a hand on the handleset, pushing it open. “Door locks from the inside.”

And inside were amenities. Pushed up against a wall and a wide window was a wide double book bed in a beautiful bistre brown. Joven tapped at a compact, red radio on a brown side table by the door. “Intercom.” Low lights with backlights from behind the cabinets transformed the room into a trendy spa-hotel hybrid. “That’s the bathroom.”  he pointed to a door next to a sconce. There was a shelf, and a rug, and an arm chair, and a lamp, and a mirror. “Clothes in the closet and running water, if you want to freshen up. Dinner should be delivered in a few hours.”

Damien took a roundabout around the room, hand outreached. Feeling the fine sheets under his fingers. The wooden wholeness of the furnishings like a steady stone in this world. He saw these tiny things with wonder and as he crossed the threshold, he would be comforted by the reality that he was real, and that this was real. That he was human and maybe something a little more. But never less, like he was led to believe his whole life.

“Can I leave you here?”

“Yeah, okay.”

Joven nods his goodbye, closing the door behind him, he had a good feeling about this. He lifts an arm up to his face, rolling a sleeve back to sneak a peak at his watch. _Shit._ He makes a run for the Tower, not wanting to miss the spectacle that was Ian irate.


	5. verbal violence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> super sorry if this one is so short, i'm a little busier now and dialogue is [still] not my forte. but i've already begun on the next two chapters which should be better

David wasn't a telepath, nor would he like to be one.

Just seeing the look on his friends’ frightened faces was enough to make him squirm, skin crawling. He imagined reading their thoughts would only intensify it. Instead, he sat, placed in his little peanut gallery. Pleased with the choices he had made. Joven slinks in and sits beside him, not a second to waste—similarly safe, despite his dreadful decision-making skills. If given the chance, David was sure Joven would’ve joined their trip. Turning their six into seven, or eight he supposed, counting Mari. Who was now undergoing some sort of surgery, a fight for her life. David had no clue of the medical mumbo jumbo of it all, but he did have complete confidence in Sohinki’s capabilities—not to mention Mari’s remarkable resolve. For life or for anything.

So, settling over the six of them—Shayne, Boze, Noah, Wes, Keith, and Courtney was a stress a saw couldn't cut through. Sat around in their conference room circular table, its commodious circumference keeping them cloistered and apart. Divisively disarranging their thoughts.

 “Who planned this?”

It’s quiet. Save for the occasional quickened intakes of breath. Ian Hecox, an armored man in his one-toned button up shirts and plain pants, was downright disturbing when coaxed out of this assemblage; striking the fear of God into them, with his extreme expressions—both verbal and facial. This, however, was a reasonable, completely rational reaction. “Who planned this?” he repeated, an aggressive escalation. Desperate eyes darting around the room told a story. Shayne stays stoic, gaze fixed at Ian, with his signature sensibility. Wes surveys his companions, head moving side to side, reading the room and all possible outcomes; then at Joven, leaning forward as he pleaded wordlessly. Keith stares unabashedly at Noah, brows furrowed with narrowed eyes. Noah scowls at Boze with what seemed like more than an inkling of irritation, but she’s warily watching Courtney with worry, who is staring down at the table in her discomposure.

Ian is incensed, he hissed. _“Who planned this?!”_

“Noah!” is their simultaneous shriek, a solution screamed. It’s tense and Ian rounds the table, reaching the bespectacled boy. The intent to injure lurking in his limbs, he raised heavy hands … to _grip_ the back of Noah’s chair.

“Noah?” Ian inquired, bending down; ear-level, but Noah is not backing down, unflinching.

“No,” Courtney countered, stating sharply. “It was me.” And if they weren’t so scared, they would’ve gasped, all melodramatic-like.

“It was you?” Nervous nodding, no eye contact. “ _You_ orchestrated this operation?”

Courtney is seated adjacent to Noah and, so, Ian stays where he is. Halted by his hesitance. She’s lying, clearly, and everyone’s caught it, but he goes along with it. “Do you realize that you have endangered everyone here—yourself, us, and Summerland?” he starts steadily, still seething. “Are you okay with what you’ve done? Putting us at risk?”

“I-”

“Because I’m _fucking_ not!” In one magnanimous movement, Ian slams his hands down on the table—everyone seated jolts, _jumps_ —then he stands. Straightening up like he didn’t just lose it, clears his throat and walks back to the front of the room. Hands smoothing over the shoulders of his shirt. He’s too upset to be his usual eloquent self, no smart sayings or clever metaphors for a lesson this time around. “I’m not fine with this kind of behavior, I don’t tolerate it for a reason.” Face flushed, brows lowered in a furrowed line. “You knew this, but still you went forward with it. Dragging everyone into this mess.”

Courtney confessed quickly. "-Olivia told him-Noah-to do it! In a dream, and we di-"

"Olivia is confined in her consciousness, running rampant in her own reality!" Ian, impatient, snapped steely. "For years now.” Their reactions are raw, the hurt hangs on their faces, horrified. "I hardly think she has a say in the matter." The validity of the statement would have to be questioned later, not now though. Not the best time for it. “What matters now is how we deal with the aftermath of this.” He gestures vaguely at them. “All of this.” A sadness so strong, a sea of silence beats away at their initial defiance.

Shayne stands up for them, stressing some highlights from the mission. “It’s been done Ian, the mission was a success. We rescued Damien, we got back.” he shared, sitting up straight,

“ _I_ got you back. Mari got _shot_.” Ian fumed, thumb jerking to point to himself. “They could’ve put some kind of tracker on you. This could’ve been a trap and you fell right for it. How do we even know if this Haas boy isn’t on their side? You know how they are, how they all are. Were some of you not under their _care_. Or did you just somehow forget about that?”

Ian implying their incompetence somehow felt worse than anything he could’ve said or done. “These things need to be thought through.” Softer now, he sighs,  massaging his temples with his hands. Then he wasn’t so terrifying at the time being, just troubled and tired. “A-and I thought I taught you that.”

 _No, that was the worst thing he could’ve done._ A sudden switch in spirit which guilted the whole group. Good on Ian, for employing the efficiency of the duality of man. Whatever daring dissent they had had had dispersed, just like that. God, David loved discipline. They were reduced to repentant, little children. Heads bowed, downcast. Practically lining up for the chance at an apology.

“Sometimes, you want to save everyone,” Now there was the Ian he knew, he leaned back and looked up at him. “We _can’t_ , and the sooner we accept that … the better.” _the better_. “When we shoulder their lives and their survival, the sorrow stays with us when we are unsuccessful.” And, unfortunately, no one knew it better than Ian. He pursued this point reflectively, Ian rubs at exhausted eyes before looking back at them. Wise beyond his years as he carefully chastised them.

“I don’t care if you save the world, or one person, or me. What does it matter if you cannot save yourself?” _Just like that._

Seating himself, he takes off his glasses and the armor comes off. “You’re all dismissed.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the last quote is a variation of one from legion, delivered by sydney barrett and written by noah hawley—its final season just started ugh watch it


	6. blankets bite back bitter boreal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter was initially going to be chapter 7, which would've preceded by a boze pov chapter 6—but i switched 'em. still not sure if that was a good idea

_Wake up, wake up,_ _wake up!_

A woman’s voices in his head won’t stop whispering. A welcome white noise, soft and static.

So Damien wakes up, in a cold sweat, the sound stops its spiraling; skin is stranger to these tawny sheets with their tedious thread count. He’s drowned in dreams and swallowed by sheets. He supposes it’s better than waking up in a psychiatric ward or a cell. _Or not at all_ , echoes in his head—perfidious personas. But he shakes it off and sits up straight, surveying the room. _Still Summerland._ His head feels heavy in his hands, toppling off of his neck with the weight of his worries. But he has to _think_. Think about where the hell he is, whatever the hell those people spoke about, whether he’s in danger or not. His safety did matter to him, no matter how many poor decisions he made. Damien didn’t have a chance to discern his surroundings, having grabbed a robe and flopped down on the bed, passing out in a deep sleep. He looked at the window to the woods on his left, bright moonlight coming through. Basking the room in an _unreal_ luminescence. Emphasis on unreal. Under this filter of fictitious silver shine, everything seemed stuck in a half-conscious state; submerging him in a dreadful daze. Toeing the territory between his fantasy and reality.

“This has to stop.” Damien decided, saying it out loud to no one in particular, done with his delusions. “This has to stop!”

And as if called forward by his crazed commitment, a girl takes shape in the shadows of his cozy alcove.

Serenely seated in an auburn armchair, which was artfully arranged adjacent to a big bookshelf and closed in by a floor lamp to a corner of the room opposite his bed. Blinking, he tried to will this specter away, like he had done to all his hallucinations. Not a chance, her silhouette stays put and she even breaks the stillness of the scene. Languidly lilting hand reached under the lampshade, tugging at the chain. Illuminating her in a golden glow. She’s far from any of the apparitions he’s accustomed to, usually all mistily murky. But she’s sure sharp, across the room and away from him. Damien thinks if he reached for her, touching, he would feel a _human_ , and all the warmth and skin and texture that would entail. From where he stays seated, he could see her scrutiny—not unkind, just observant.

Clement confusion is a charming countenance on her fine face. Sheer silk shift hung off her shoulders, a modish sort of medical suit, swamping her small stature. And long hair like soft silk hanging around her, almost floating about her. The light catches on all the sharp parts of like her face. An illumination that would usually bring out all the evil sinister in anyone’s appearance, but she’s nonthreatening—in every sense of the word. If anything, her presence had a pleasant power to it. A patron saint of nurses and kindergarten teachers and volunteers and caretakers and other empathic employments.

 She leaned forward, resting a real elbow on the armrest, then resting her real chin in her real hand. Eyes widened at him, sincerely surprised. “They really did it,” she breathed, smiling softly. “I knew that they could. Please, please, please tell them that I knew they could.” Tongue tied, he couldn’t really say or tell anyone anything. Like in those supernatural situations or paranormal encounters. People saying they felt stuck in the moment. “I’m sure they did phenomenal work, wish I could’ve been there.” _Have his senses split on him?_ The inherent inexplicability of it all has him in its silent grip. “Anyways, it’s so good to finally meet you.” She sat up straight, smoothing a hand over her hair as she crossed her legs under her in a child-like manner. “I am Olivia Mu Sui.” _The_ _Sui Case_ , his little primate brain revels in the revelation and his simple recollection of the connection, “There’s so much to discuss.”

Damien felt naked, why did he feel naked? Under the heavy, warm weight of the  blanket; inside his comfortable clothes, he was so susceptible still. “D-damien, I’m Damien.” he hesitated, _hesitantly_. “S-sorry for the confusion, but …” he doesn’t look up to meet her gaze, finding that it is too forward. Instead, down at the bed, fisting the sheets with both hands in his disquiet. “Are you-is this … _real_?” Talking required at least some semblance contact, he assumed or at least something like it. Damien met her eyes, her face. And the frozen, forward expression on it. Thinking about what she should say next, minute mouth opening and then closing again.

“I have good news,” she stated sparingly, finally settling on a train of thought. “And bad news.” It seemed she had a speech for the occasion, before Damien rudely questioned her reality, asking about her actuality. “Which would you prefer first?”

“Oh? uh … bad, I guess?”

She cleared her throat before continuing confidently. “You have an unquiet mind—I heard it in my sleep and even louder now, because of this you war with yourself, _constantly_. It doesn’t take much to see that and I’m sure it will come up eventually.” _What an utterly uncomforting thought, but confirming._ Lifting a hand to his head, he ruffles his hair, it’s still all sleep-swept and no good for present company. “Your mind, it reaches out to everyone else’s. Think of it like tangled telephone lines, ever-growing and ever-searching.” her hands danced across the air as she explained, extremely expressive. ”But they aren’t quite like you, these other people. They can’t understand what your mind does, and neither can you at times. Know this, especially when you feel and think what you do.

“But _I am_ like you. That’s how you’re seeing me, hearing me, listening to me. They cannot comprehend my many attempts at communication with them.” Gesturing vaguely to the exit. “In this moment, I am real to you and no one else. Reality can be different for different people, this is confusing. In this case, reality is what you make it.”

“… so, my mind is a mess?”

“…A great generalization, but yes.”

“Wait, what’s the good news?”

Olivia smiles again, one of relief realized. Reclining, she revealed, rejoicing. “I’m not alone anymore!” she shrieks. A sudden switch from her informative tone, kicking little feet into the air. “Finally, I have someone to speak to.” Happiness airy and apparent. “I can only talk to Noah in woolly, washed-out whispers, it’s good he managed to make sense of my murmurings and mumbles.”

“What have you been telling him?”

She looks at him like it’s obvious, like he’s obtuse. “To rescue you, Damien.”

“But why?”

Her eyes flash like funhouse mirrors, reflecting a warped image of him. “Everything is so fuzzy.” Olivia offered, furrowing her brows in displaced frustration. “I’ve been here—in my mind, for _so_ long, like _hours_.” tilting her head as she looked up, thinking back on her terms. “Or, what’s longer than an hour? Yachts? yaks—no. _Years_.”

A chill, involuntarily icy, ran up his spine. _Years?_ The flashing intensifies and so does the churning in his stomach. _What could she mean by that? In her mind, all these years? Is this the fate that follows all like him?_ She said it herself, _I am like you—like the Sui Case,_ all the telepathic, telekinetic, t-something-something-pathic peculiars.

Shivering, she looked back behind her and around the room. “Quite a pretty place they’ve got you holed up in,” she noted, nodding agreeably. “My room is rather cold, I don’t know what they’ve done with it.” _And she has avoided the question, methodically done._ Damien supposes it doesn’t matter, he’s safe with the veil over his eyes drawn back, _but still…_

“Wish it were warmer.” Knees drawn up to her chest now with arms wrapped around them.

Damien realized he’s been crumpling up the sheets around him this whole time. Hands slide, smoothing over it. But bunching them up anyways, gathering them in his grip as he moved, automated. Almost not of his own accord. Feet feeling stiff like steel moving from the edge of the bed to plant them on the floor. Dragging them—his feet and the blanket, across the room to Olivia. All sunny smiles warming them both up, she swayed slightly in her—his, it’s his room he forgets, seat. It is cold, the night is nippy, numbing Damien in his sleepwear. He can only imagine how frozen she must feel.

His skin skims hers as he handed the soft cloth over. A little chilled but otherwise human-warm. Not faltering like a hasty hologram, or shattering like a delicate doll, or melting to the ground in a pasty puddle.

“Here.”

“Thank you.”

She threw it over her shoulders with a flourish, snuggling into the sheets with all the contentment of a baby in children’s book. It’s suddenly seems like too much of a distance to travel back to his bed to resume a conversation. Damien decided to take a step back and stayed standing, leaning up against the wall. He didn’t like the dominative stance, hovering over her.

“Why me?’

“Why what?”

At this point he couldn’t even tell if she was deliberately dodging the question. However, the gnawing in his gut was a powerful one, persisting and overcoming his politer tendencies. “Why did you have them rescue me,” he repeated urgently, undoing her unbending behavior. “The doctor and the men were about to kill me over there when they saved me.” she had slumped over and looked away in her secretive shame. “They took me from where I was hiding, they knew who I was-”

“-Please believe me when I say I don’t know.” Olivia lamented with an undeserved remorse, her face was all softhearted sympathy. “I-I only just now s-started talking again, and I woke to your name.” grabbing bunches of her hair, she tugged at it. Away from her and then covering her ears. “Your name, just, over and over and over—and I knew it had to mean something.” she was straining with the effort of remembering. “It had to right? And then I kept relaying it to Noah, over and over and over again, in dreams and memories. Must’ve driven him mad.”

Olivia looked up to him with wide-eyed worry and mouth hanging open. “Do you think I drove him mad?” Surges of guilt pricked at him with the same persistence he forced her. “Is he okay-oh my gosh-”

“-he’s okay, I swear, he’s fine. ”

“Promise?”

 _How did this turn on him so suddenly?_ “Promise.”

“Okay, okay.” Soothing herself with soft sighs and easy exhales. “That’s goose-I mean, good.” she ran a hand through her hair, righting her appearance. “I may not know why I brought you here, but I do know that you’re safe here.” Once Olivia felt she was fine, she smiled again, albeit more comforting. Less for her and more for him. “This was the right thing to do.”

A silence settled over them, a much needed quiet for the strange scene.

“How are all of them?” she cajoled carefully. “The ones that you’ve met anyways.”

_Keith, Noah, Courtney, Wes, Boze, Joven, Ian, and … Strongman—he had never introduced himself, his hero._

“They were lovely.” he decided, his mind stuck on his savior. “All of them.”

“Oh, I miss all of them. I wish I could talk to them and see them and-”

She faltered, holding a hand up to clutch her chest. For a moment she looked to be in great pain, a familiar sight for him, his heart jumped to his throat and stayed there. “Are you alright?” Damien knelt down to face her, eye-level. “What happened?”

Through gritted teeth, she managed. “Not used to being _here_ anymore.” She looked up at him, composure caving. “I’ve got to go Damien.” She’s shrugging off the blanket in an acute action, far from her giddy disposition. “Just, uh, don’t tell anyone you’ve spoken to me.” Olivia began listing, looking at him all dead serious. “Do as they say unless I say something contrary.” he leaned forward in his attentiveness.

Cradling his cheek in cold hands and pulled him close, Olivia added one last thing—staring into the great unknown of his soul. “You’re a good person, and you deserve love.”

With that she was gone … _truly gone_. Without a wave or a sound, not even a comical little poof.

He fell on the balls of his feet, seated on the carpet—mind running a mile a minute. _Air, I need air._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this took way longer than it had any right to beee


End file.
